The Devil's Mistress by David Barclay (reading well .txt) 📕

emerged with a bow slung across his back and two long knives held within his hands. The blades looked as if they were intended for human rather than animal.

Jacob shook his head. “You risked your life for those?”

The man shrugged. “I am a hunter.”

“That’s your name, isn’t it? Hunter of Shadows?”

The other man nodded.

“That’s a bit forthright, isn’t it?”

Hunter removed the bow from his shoulders and began to brush the insects from it. “When I was a boy, I would follow my father every day into the wood. He went to hunt and did not believe I was yet worthy. So I began to hide, to stay unseen in the forest to prove my worth. I became so adept, they said I was of the shadows themselves.”

Jacob stared at him, unsure of what to make of this.

Hunter, meanwhile, had deemed the bow clean enough and returned it to his shoulder. “What is your name?”

“Jacob Reeds.”

“I am in your debt, Jacob.”

“Then help me. I need to reach the mill. I need to find out what’s happened to this town.”

Hunter looked at him as if he were mad, then took off at once toward the front of the parish.

“Wait,” Jacob called, but this time, Hunter was only leading the way. He paused at the crest of the road and waited.

When Jacob caught up, he realized his desire for answers was to be granted sooner than expected. There beyond the trees at the edge of town, upon the same jagged shore where sat the broken remnants of the dunking apparatus, were the remaining men, women, and children of Blackfriar.

Or what was left of them.

Chapter 26

The wolves had driven them into the bay like cattle.

At least three dozen figures stood waist-deep in the freezing waters, clutching one another in the black of night. A few men skirted the shoreline in search of escape, but their efforts were thwarted at every turn. The beasts paced along water’s edge with them, dancing and yipping in anticipation of their own Twelfth Night feast.

Hunter regarded the scene from the relative safety of The Fancy’s pier. “Wolves do not do this. It is not natural.”

Jacob came up behind him, panting. “I think what is natural has been staid for the evening, but it doesn’t matter. We have to save them.”

“To save them? After all they’ve done?”

“They were confused. Easily persuaded.”

“They would have strung me by the neck for no greater proof than an article of clothing, and you for no greater sin than love.”

“How do you know that?”

Hunter pointed to the purple halo on Jacob’s neck as if it explained everything. Perhaps it did. Perhaps the man had heard enough from his hole in the earth.

Jacob looked back at the water. “We will deal with those responsible in due time. These people, though. They are just normal folk.”

Hunter made a low, grunting noise.

“Do you wish to repay your debt or not?” Jacob said.

“We cannot save them. Half are dead already. The other half will die of cold before the night is done. We must find the one responsible.”

This time, it was the boy’s turn to grunt. No matter what madness had seized the town, they needed a practical solution. There were too many wolves to hunt, and even if they managed to kill one with an arrow or musket shot, its brethren would scatter into the woods.

He stomped at the pier beneath his feet. “We need fire.”

“We cannot block the entire shore.”

“We can block this, here. The people can swim and then lock themselves within the tavern.”

“And us? How do you propose we get free after the deed is done?”

Jacob hadn’t considered that far. “We will deal with that when we come to it.”

“Spoken as one with no regard for the future.”

“Without these people, there will be no future. Not for this town.”

Hunter’s gaze told him that would not be such a bad thing, at least in the eyes of his people. Before Jacob could rebuke him, though, the Indian took off in the direction of the market. Jacob shook his head, resolving that—if he couldn’t keep up—he would at least test the defensibility of his surroundings.

He had only been to The Fisherman’s Fancy on one other occasion and hadn’t much cared for it. It was too loud, too boisterous, too full of fat and rowdy men he’d just assume avoid. Structurally speaking, however, it was as solid as a block.

There was a torch at the entrance. He removed it from its housing and stepped in through the door. The front of the tavern was dark, but the faint glow of a candle shown from the kitchen.

“Who’s there?” came a voice.

Jacob moved farther in. Upon the floor was the serving maid, Carla Peabottom, surrounded by the corpses of The Fancy’s lemon cakes.

“Who’s there?” she said, shielding her eyes from the flames.

Jacob regarded her. “You’re safe in here?”

“Course I’m safe. What are you on about?”

“You don’t hear the… Get up. We need your help.”

The woman lumbered to her feet. “You’re that boy from the hanging! What are you doing here?

“I was let out.” Jacob indicated the crumbs on the floor. “What are you doing?”

“Me? Just a bit of feasting. They go bad after a few days, you see. ’Tis the day, isn’t it? No need to tell the mister.”

The patter of feet came from outside, and Jacob looked up. “Come with me.”

Something in his tone must have worked, as she immediately stood to attention and grabbed a rolling pin. “Something to defend me-self,” she said.

He went to the door with the woman on his heels. At first, there was nothing.

“What’s—” Carla began, and then a giant gray beast leaped from round the corner and charged.

Jacob fell backward, dropping his flintlock and knocking the woman onto her rear. He landed on top of her. The wolf slid along the decking, pivoted in the tangle, then lunged, its teeth closing round the peg of Jacob’s wooden limb.

Carla thrashed. “Get it off!” she squeaked. “Get it off! Get it